


Onwards

by yet_intrepid



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-16 03:09:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan is determined to persuade Feuilly to come to a salon where Chopin is performing. Feuilly is reluctant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Onwards

**Author's Note:**

  * For [treblemirinlens](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=treblemirinlens).



“Chopin’s giving a salon performance,” Jehan called from his bedroom, as Feuilly sat on the couch looking over Jehan’s translation of Blake. “Dérivis, a tenor I know from the Conservatoire, is joining him.”

“Sorry,” said Feuilly absentmindedly, “who’s Chopin again?”

Jehan emerged from the bedroom, having found his English dictionary. “Composer. Pianist. Polish émigré.”

Feuilly looked up at that. “Involved with the insurgents?”

“Not directly, but a supporter.” Jehan sat down on the couch next to Feuilly. “Anyway, Dérivis told me that they want a flutist for an arrangement of some songs that’s being tried for the salon, and dropped my name. I’ve been asked to play.”

Feuilly smiled. “That’s wonderful.”

“And I want you to come.”

“What?”

Jehan ducked his head a bit. “Er, well, they said I could invite a few guests, you see. Probably expect me to ask people who I want to impress with my playing, but I just want people who’ll enjoy it. And it’s selections from his series of Polish songs, so—I thought of you, you know?”

Feuilly blinked. “Well, that’s—I mean, it’s kind of you, Jehan, but I don’t think—”

“The songs are fantastic,” Jehan hurried on. “Such variance in mood, and the arrangements so intricately put together. I think you’d love it; it’d be a cultural experience and maybe you’d even be able to talk to him a bit…”

“Jehan,” said Feuilly, “I can’t go to a salon.”

Jehan bit his lip. “But Feuilly—”

Feuilly went on doggedly. “Salons are glittering and dignified; they’re meant for people who can dress finely and talk about the music, the sorts of people who sit in boxes at the opera and compare the performers. I’ll stand out; you’ll be the only one to want me there, and I don’t wish to make a scene.”

“No, listen,” said Jehan. “It’s at Dérivis’ parents’ summer house. They won’t be there; they’re in Montpellier for the winter. The guests will be mostly Polish émigrés. If the musical elite of Paris were being invited, the pieces chosen would be flashier ones—to dazzle, not so much to stir the heart the way these songs do. Hold on, I’ll get my flute and play one for you…”

“Jehan—” Feuilly was protesting, but Jehan was already crossing the room to find his flute and taking it from the case, connecting the head joint to the body and nimbly playing through a few scales to warm up. Once he’d done so, he darted about looking for his sheet music.

“Here,” he said, once he’d found it. “I’ll play you this one. The melody, I mean, because my part doesn’t sound right by itself. It’s called—and I’m sure I’ll murder the Polish; forgive me—‘Wojak,’ or ‘The Warrior.’”

And he launched into it. Feuilly closed his eyes, and at once the melody began to sweep him away, rolling like waves in the full lower voice of Jehan’s flute for the first verse, leaping upwards for the second to sound the tune clear and sharp like a fife on its way to battle.

And he could see himself under the bright dawn, air washed clean with last night’s rain, amid the horses and the men eager for battle, eager to liberate their country and counting the cost as joy. And the flute was beckoning, pulling him forwards, bursting with hope and defiance. Onwards, onwards—

Feuilly held his breath. The piece swelled, charged, and closed triumphantly, leaving him far from Jehan’s flat, far from Paris.

But no sooner had it ended than Jehan was back on the couch beside him, flute in hand. “Well?” he demanded, grinning. “What did you think?”

Feuilly blinked. He shook his head in amazement, drew in a breath, and determinedly sought the words. “It was— _alive._ And I wanted to go to it.”

Jehan’s smile softened with pleasure. “Well, the poet who provided the lyrics is, like Chopin, decidedly a Polish patriot. It is only natural that you should feel kinship with his warrior.”

Feuilly ducked his head a little at the compliment. “But it was so vivid,” he said slowly. “I could—there were no words, yet I could see the warriors, the horses, feel the camaraderie. And it…it rolled, and it was _full_ —I don’t know. I am not describing it well.”

“You’re describing it wonderfully,” said Jehan.

Encouraged, Feuilly went on. “I very much had the feeling of being caught up, and of moving with the rise and fall of the music—perhaps that is what riding feels like; I wouldn’t know—and it was colorful, too. As if paint had been splashed across the sky with wide but skillful strokes.”

“I think it does feel like riding,” Jehan said. “I’m not sure if it’s more of a canter or a gallop…the six-eight time would seem to indicate cantering, but I’ve not ridden in years and so maybe I’m not remembering how the rhythms feel exactly. And the paint—I never would have thought of that. But I can see it.” He drew in a deep breath and let it out. “—A horse bursting with energy, a warrior eager for adventure, the painted sky above and the damp grass beneath. I really need to get a translation of those lyrics.”

“That’d be wonderful,” said Feuilly wistfully. “I wonder how similar they are to what we’re picturing.”

“Well,” Jehan said, getting up to put his flute away, “we can ask someone at the salon.”

Feuilly began to agree, began to protest, shut his mouth to think a moment, and then sighed. “All right,” he said. “All right. I’ll go.”

Jehan’s face lit up. “I’ll ask Combeferre too, so you won’t have to sit by yourself,” he said. “Oh, Feuilly, you’ll love it. The other pieces are just as wonderful. And like I said, émigrés. They’re all revolutionaries of some sort or another. They’ve no reason to dislike you, and if they do, well—they don’t deserve what they’re missing.”

Feuilly laughed. “I think you are a bit biased there, my friend. But I’ll go.”

Onwards, he told himself. “Wojak” had, after all, already taken him much further.


End file.
